In just over an hour, August will have faded away. To say I'm not ready is an understatement.
I'm not ready.
I'm not ready for early bedtimes and earlier mornings.
I'm not ready for the paper trail that marks the beginning of another school year.
I'm not ready for calendar squares filled up, with arrows and circles marking the mayhem.
I'm not ready for the shorts and tank tops to be put away, making room for sweaters and boots.
I'm not ready for deadlines and due dates and reading lists.
Somehow, the dates on the calendar don't wait until you're ready.
But if f I could, I'd plead my case.
I'd look back on this month that was and the story it tells.
Of a tragedy and a vigil that engulfed me in grief and moved me to help create something beautiful...
On the heels of which came a trek to the west coast, full of who we were and what we left behind.
To which we tacked on a week of decisions and choices and registrations and anticipation.
All clouded in the wish for time to stand still and lend me more time.
More time to breath.
More time to dig my heels into the hot sand.
More time to snuggle a warm little girl's body into mine and talk about nothing.
More time to sip and laugh on a patio until it's much too late.
More time to whittle down my stack of books by turning pages, uninterrupted.
More time to hope I'm not making too many mistakes.
More time to not be in a hurry.
I'm not ready, but September is.
Knocking at my door and waiting.
Ready or not, here it comes.